


Advent

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Tender Increments [16]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Fluff, Ireland, Kid Fic, Parenthood, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28221741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: The sixteenth Christmas that Erik and Christine spend together starts in late November. Between planning, deciding on gifts, and entertaining an excitable five-year-old, it's a whirlwind time.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: Tender Increments [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1232849
Kudos: 6





	Advent

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for timebird84's PotO Advent Calendar on Tumblr. My date was 21 December, and this was supposed to be short but it grew and grew. I hope you enjoy it!

This year, the Christmas Season begins on 28 November.

That is the day Erik meets Doctor MacAndréis from the Department of Modern Irish leaving Costa with a Terry’s chocolate orange latte in one hand, and a miniature Christmas tree in the other.

Erik considers it best not to ask any questions.

MacAndréis gives him that grin he wears with just a touch of mischief, and winks behind his glasses. Then he is gone, and if it was anyone else then Erik might almost think he was hallucinating. But MacAndréis is MacAndréis, and is merely an eccentric like himself, and so this encounter is the thing that encourages him to finally cave and order himself a black forest hot chocolate.

He’s been putting this day off for weeks, but if MacAndréis has acquired a tiny Christmas tree, then it’s time to concede to the season.

Clíodhna will be delighted to hear it.

(He suspects she has her letter to Santa half-written already.)

* * *

The day Erik sits down on the couch and pulls Clíodhna onto his lap to ask her what she wants from Santa, it is 30 November and Christine has only just gotten Andriú settled in for his nap. He has just turned eight months old, and is sleeping better than he was, but she will not have him disturbed for the evening, so when Clíodhna comes rushing up to her, “Mammy, Mammy! Daddy says I can write my Santy letter!” Christine shushes her little girl so she will not accidentally wake her brother.

“Can I, Mammy?” she whispers, and it’s a loud whisper but Christine doesn’t have the heart to shush her again. She looks to Erik, still sitting on the couch, as if he is not the one who has just caused their daughter’s rush of excitement, and finds him nodding vigorously, so she turns her attention back to Clíodhna, and nods.

“You can,” she whispers, and Clíodhna grins, her blue eyes bright and shining, before she throws her arms around Christine’s legs and hugs her.

And then there is paper, and pens, and a very enthusiastic five-year-old sitting in her lap and demanding for words to be spelled.

Erik kisses her forehead, before he goes to put the kettle on.

“I met MacAndréis with a Christmas tree,” he says, as if that is the most sensible explanation in the world.

* * *

_“And are you going to ask Santa to bring something for Andriú?”_

_“A dinosaur!”_

_The effort not to laugh. “I think Andriú is a bit small for a dinosaur.”_

* * *

There is, as far as Erik is concerned, nothing quite like the experience of hearing ‘Daidí na Nollag’ sung by a five-year-old as she winds silver tinsel around a miniature tree.

He is not saying it out of any sort of bias, but Clíodhna is an excellent little singer.

He adjusts his grip on Andriú, who has somehow fallen asleep against his chest, even with the singing, and shushes her slightly. “And where are the _réaltaí_?” he asks, and Clíodhna points to the sky. “ _Sa spéir_!”

Christine is shopping, and it is his noble duty as babysitter to look after both the sproggle in his arms and the beanie sprout who insists she is “practicing for my play!” with her bouncing dark curls.

She is an angel this year, not Mary, but she is determined to sing every song as if she were the star of the show.

“What about ‘Silent Night’ next?” something quieter than another thrilling rendition of ‘Daidí na Nollag’.

She bobs her head, and finds a small star to set on top of the little tree.

“Siii-lent night…”

* * *

When Christine gets home she finds Erik asleep on the floor, Andriú asleep on his chest and Clíodhna tucked in asleep beneath his arm. The floor is littered with tinsel and baubles, and there are two small trees sitting decorated on the coffee table. Christine snaps a photo of her husband and their babies, and then stoops down and gently scoops Andriú out of his arms. Erik snuffles, his eyes flickering open. “Are you long back?” His voice is groggy.

She smiles. “Only just. Wake up a bit, and I’ll put the kettle boiling.”

Time enough, later, to smuggle in the surprise she has gotten him, hidden deep in the car.

It’s a present for both of them, and she can hardly wait for the day to arrive that she’ll give it to him.

* * *

It is 5 December when he meets Éilis ní Cuana for tea. Éilis is MacAndréis’ wife, as far as Erik knows, but at this point he’s a little embarrassed to ask. MacAndréis wears two wedding rings and refers in equal terms to his wife (Éilis) and his husband (Seán MacAlisdair), and while Erik is certain that the man cannot legally be married to both of them, he’s reasonably (about 95%) certain that it’s a polyamorous relationship, like what John Henry has with Kate and Morgan, and that’s good enough for him.

Erik meets Éilis, today, for two reasons. The first is that she’s writing a hybrid-play about Terence MacSwiney, and he has been working on a score for it since the summer. This has involved not only reading what she has written of the play, but also making several trips to Dublin to read MacSwiney’s letters (the man’s handwriting was devilish) and raiding Christine’s collection of books for Items of Interest. This increased familiarity with Christine’s collection of books is the second reason he is meeting Éilis – he has no idea what to get his wife for Christmas.

This is their sixteenth Christmas. He feels like he ran out of good gift ideas years ago.

Fortunately, Éilis is a librarian and an archivist. She is a woman who Knows Things, and if his theory is right about the relationship she has with MacAndréis and MacAlisdair, then so much the better. MacAlisdair is a medical historian, and while Christine is a political historian, that means Erik and Éilis have something in common. Namely, loving people who make whole fields of study out of areas that seem boring to most.

(He has never found Christine’s work boring, never mind half the time he can hardly keep up with her.)

Éilis unwraps a ginger biscuit. “What’s her topic at the minute?”

“Underground resistance against authoritative regimes in twentieth-century Europe.”

Éilis blinks slowly. “And I thought listening to the prevalence of chloroform addiction among nineteenth-century doctors was a fun time.”

Erik almost chokes on his tea.

* * *

_“You could get him a replica chloroform bottle...”_

_“You could get her a necklace with_ No Pasarán… _”_

* * *

How Andriú sleeps through their laughter Erik will never know.

* * *

Meanwhile Christine is in Tower Records on O’Connell Street, trying to decide what to get Erik for Christmas. She has expert assistance in the form of Clíodhna, who is very adamant that what “daddy would want” is an album of Christmas songs in Irish. Christine suspects her wayward daughter picked it because it has ‘Daidí na Nollag’ on it.

Considering Christine herself is tempted to buy him a vinyl of old rebel songs to tease him about his new interest in Terence MacSwiney, she is not sure she can comment.

Besides, the Secret Surprise she has gotten him will do that well enough.

(A replica Irish Volunteers uniform, complete with slouch hat, and she has half a mind to give it to him on Christmas Eve, when Clíodhna and Andriú are tucked up in bed.)

(“For inspiration,” she will say, “while you’re composing,” and she will kiss his cheek and he will go off and change into it, and when he comes back her throat will be dry at the sight of him in those high boots, that coat, the hat tilted low over his eyes, and there will be a touch of mischief about him as he will ask, “Are you going to search me for weapons?”)

She’s fairly certain he has all the music he actually wants, so she’s not sure why she came in here except that she always likes to when she’s present-hunting. That, and she wanted to show Clíodhna around. Clíodhna has gotten very interested in music lately and Christine has half-decided to start her on tin whistle lessons in the New Year. Christine didn’t tell her where they were going, only that they were “shopping for Daddy”, and when Clíodhna realised they were in a shop _full_ of vinyls and retro tapes and cds and posters, she was struck silent for the first few moments, her little hand holding on tight to Christine’s own.

“Is this a real shop?” she whispered, and Christine nodded and grinned down at her.

“It is. And it’s Daddy’s favourite shop.”

And Clíodhna shrieked so loudly it almost blew out Christine’s eardrum.

She is resigned, now, that she will not find Erik’s present here, but no matter. Clíodhna is delighted with the place, and that is enough for Christine.

“Do you want to get Daddy that album?” she asks, and Clíodhna nods.

“Yes!”

* * *

Clíodhna is sworn to secrecy about her “present for Daddy”, and also about the vinyl of Taylor Swift’s _folklore_ that Christine decides on a whim to get him. And when they go to a toy shop, Clíodhna comes back with a small reindeer teddy.

“For Andriú!” she says, and Christine’s heart swells.

* * *

They have dinner that Sunday with Lilly, and afterwards Erik plays with Andriú on the floor, rolling a ball to him for him to roll back, before Andriú takes a fit of giggling and tries to crawl away. He’s gotten to be an active little thing, and the next time Erik rolls the ball to him he throws it at the couch. Christine snorts watching the two of them, but if Erik notices he doesn’t show it, doesn’t even look away from Andriú as he reaches behind him for a second ball. That one, too, gets flung at the couch, and Lilly is grinning while she spoons the Christmas cake mixture into a tin. Clíodhna is watching very intently, singing ‘Away in a Manger’ to herself, and when Lilly almost has the bowl empty, she hands both bowl and spoon to her. “Do you think you can clean the last of it out, Madame?”

“Yes, Nan!”

The mixture ends up on her hands and her sleeves and in her hair, but she’s laughing as she scrapes the spoon along the side of the bowl, and the smell of the cakes is warm in the air, settling in Christine’s chest.

Warm, and safe, and like every Christmas she can ever remember, the evening dark and the windows fogged up, the echo of her father playing his violin… And it’s been more than twenty-two years, but the smell of Christmas cakes always reminds her of him, and she wonders will it be something that Clíodhna remembers, in the far-distant future, an evening like this, and the warm aroma in the air…

* * *

This time Erik is the one leaving Costa when he meets MacAndréis, who has a sprig of holly behind his ear and a gold ribbon tied around his wrist. And the man must be in his mid-thirties, but he seems younger and younger every time Erik sees him and this time is no different. He earns himself one of those bright grins and, “the new recording sounds great”, and he’d stop to ask more about what MacAndréis thought of the latest piece for Éilis’ project, but he’s due to meet Nadir in his office to go over his will. The annual updating, and it helps to have a barrister for a best friend, who can tweak these things without any hassle.

Not that there’s much to change in it this time, because he updated it in the spring when Andriú was born, but he likes to be sure everything is just so. It’s a little bit of peace, to not have to worry about that. Nadir has scheduled him in for an hour, and it’s a chance to have a chat as much as anything. They’ve both been so busy lately, between Nadir’s cases and with his lecturing and this play, never mind the full-time job of being a father, and Nadir knows about that too with little Aisha, and this is as good an excuse as any to settle in and have a cup of tea with him.

It sounds ridiculous, but he’s been looking forward to updating his will for weeks.

Next time he’ll talk to MacAndréis. Next time.

* * *

Two days later the weather is what Christine calls “Jack the Ripper fog”, and when Clíodhna gets home from school it seems as good a time as any to put up the proper Christmas tree. It feels more like November than December, but it is definitely December, and Erik settles at the piano, playing softly, while Clíodhna sorts the baubles and Andriú naps upstairs. The baby monitor is turned up and sitting beside Erik on the piano bench, in case the baby wakes, but all is quiet from upstairs and Christine hums along with the melody while she fixes the lights into place on the higher branches.

Last year, they didn’t put any angel onto the top of the tree. She was six months along with Andriú, and Erik was still recovering from the emergency surgery on his aorta, and they both decided it was safer if neither of them stretched to the top of the tree. This year he could put the angel on himself, or lift Clíodhna up to do it, but even though he had a clear scan only a month ago it still feels like too much to risk, so Christine scoops up Clíodhna and lifts her, and her daughter is heavier than she looks, but she fixes the angel into place and Christine sets her down again before her arms buckle.

“You’re getting big,” she says, and Clíodhna beams.

* * *

They’re promised snow, but all they get is grey slush, and this time it is Erik’s turn to take Clíodhna present-hunting. He still has not decided what to get Christine for Christmas, but he takes Clíodhna with him into the bookshop, and watches as she makes a beeline for the first book she sees with a cow on it.

“This, Daddy?”

Christine? Reading a book about cows? He almost wants to see it, but he shakes his head. “Maybe we’ll get that one for Uncle Al.”

And Clíodhna needs no more encouragement to push the book into his hand. “Hold.”

“All right, my lady.”

* * *

They come away with a book of photos of notable sculptures, and he’s beginning to think he might need to experiment more with presents.

At least it’s not another collection of Tennyson.

(There’s also a cloth book with different fabrics and pages that make music, for Andriú, and Clíodhna is pleased with herself for finding it.)

* * *

By the eleventh it still doesn’t feel like Christmas but things are distinctly more festive than they were. Nadir and John Henry between them hung a string of lights along the gutter so Erik wouldn’t have to climb the ladder, and with the Christmas tree set up (and the two little ones) and paper snowflakes that Clíodhna made in school, the house is at least decorated. Lilly has supplied them with a Christmas cake, and Erik’s mother Marina has promised them a Christmas pudding when she arrives closer to the day itself. Uncle Al has sent them a box of mince pies that a “good friend” of his made, and Erik suspects that his dear old uncle has found himself a boyfriend that he’s keeping under wraps. Erik would die of embarrassment if he suggested it to him, but he mentions it to John Henry who laughs and claps and says, “good on the old man”, and Erik knows Al will be bombarded with questions when he, too, arrives at Christmas.

They haven’t made it down to Sligo since the Halloween midterm, but Erik knows Clíodhna is excited to see her granny and granduncle and “grandad Bill” again.

(It will never not be wild for Erik to hear his stepfather called “grandad Bill.”)

* * *

It is when Christine is having coffee with Seán MacAlisdair that it occurs to her what might be nice to get Erik for Christmas.

She had questions for MacAlisdair about how bullet wounds might be treated by fugitives in the 1920s, and as he wrote out some suggestions of sources to check he mentioned offhand that he had gotten a pocket watch for “Ruairí”. It took her just a moment to remember that Ruairí is in fact MacAndréis, and by then MacAlisdair was telling her about the engraving he’d gotten put on the inside of the watch.

“I arise from dreams of thee,” he says, and smiles, “it’s his favourite Shelley poem.” And then he laughs. “I’d have had it translated into Irish for him but I was afraid it would lose its cadence.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted with it.”

“I reckon he will. And there was a dealer selling original newspapers from October 1920, so I got them for Éilis…”

And she lets him talk, but all the times she’s wondering what sort of engraving she could get put on a pocket watch.

* * *

On the day that Erik and Christine head to Dublin to get gifts for Clíodhna and Andriú, the “Santa gifts”, John Henry and Kate are left in charge of the “two beans” as John Henry calls them. Morgan is delayed at a conference in London, but he’ll be home in a few days, and Erik intends to pick out a fancy bottle of wine for him.

In hindsight, perhaps it would have been better not to have left the shopping until the two weeks before the day itself, but it’s never felt right to Erik to start Christmas shopping in November and frankly he isn’t keen on how terribly capitalistic the whole holiday has become. He knows Christine feels the same, and that’s why they prefer to buy Irish-made from small businesses as opposed to anything else. There are only so many places around Maynooth, and to be fair they do have a few nice bits gathered up, and so the trip to Dublin is to put the finishing touches to the gift gathering, and to spend the day with each other, without a wriggling eight-and-a-half month old and an excitable five year old. And there are crowds of people but it’s quiet, walking down the street holding Christine’s hand, the faint touch of frost on his nose, her fingers warm threaded through his.

They stop for hot chocolate, with cream and cinnamon, and he kisses the taste of it off her lips as she smiles into his mouth, and it’s almost like they are students again, hardly knowing each other, only knowing that there was something there, something different than there had been before, and she smooths her fingers over the back of his hand and sighs.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice low, and she shrugs.

“Nothing in particular,” but still she’s smiling, and this time she presses the kiss to the bad half of his cheek, and he cannot feel it beneath the mask.

(The mask is warmer than the make-up, in cold weather like this.)

* * *

Clíodhna and Andriú are both asleep by the time they get home, tucked into bed, and John Henry is asleep too on the couch, a blanket thrown over him. It’s not all that late, but Kate is the one sitting up waiting for them, and she smiles when they finally walk in the door.

“Did you have a good day?” she asks, and Erik nods.

“Very.”

* * *

(When Christine is out of earshot, he has half a mind to ask her what she got John Henry and Morgan for Christmas, but he is almost afraid of the answer.)

* * *

They set up a little Nativity scene near the tree, with the three wisemen and two shepherdesses (who Christine has named Meg and Jammes, and who she has decided are lesbians), and a whole collection of little sheep. There’s the traditional cow and donkey, and Joseph and Mary, and the little manger is left empty but when Clíodhna sees it her eyes widen.

“Can we put Andriú in the manger?”

Erik snorts. “I think he might be a bit big.”

(Andriú is mesmerised every time they turn on the Christmas lights, and could stare at them for hours. It’s bad for his eyes, so they only light it up sparingly.)

* * *

It’s the sixteenth by the time Erik finally sits down with MacAndréis in Costa. They have ridiculously expensive fajitas, and Erik goes for tea while MacAndréis has coffee. This time the man is dressed all in black which brings out how dark his eyes are, and if Erik were not happily married and very in love with Christine he might almost be attracted to MacAndréis, but as it is he can look at him and appreciate that he is a very fine looking man.

And it’s okay to say that, because Christine has said the same.

MacAndréis’ wedding rings shine bright on his left hand, and Erik might almost ask, but even now he hardly knows how to form the words. So instead he asks what he thinks of the music for Éilis’ project, and MacAndréis grins.

“That last one you did, ‘Bromyard’, for the wedding scene, I keep listening to it on repeat.”

Erik smiles. “I’m one of the pieces I’m happiest with so far.” _I was thinking of my own wedding when I composed it,_ he thinks but does not say.

“It’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you, actually. She wants me to write a section _as Gaeilge_ , and I was wondering if it would be a problem for you trying to score it. I’m not sure what your Irish is like and I don’t want to put you under pressure trying to get the meaning across. Like I could write out a translation for you if you want, to try and get the music right. It’s what she wants but that doesn’t mean we have to do it if it’s too awkward or anything…”

And it’s only then that Erik realises that MacAndréis is nervous. Nervous! Talking to him! This man who swans around the place as if nothing could touch him, giving off so much queer energy he could nearly put John Henry to shame, and he’s nervous!

It’s—it’s extraordinary.

“I—” Erik sips his tea and swallows. “Whichever would be handiest for you. If you want to write a translation then—then go ahead.” The thought! That anyone could be nervous of _him._

He’s hardly that terrifying looking, even with the mask.

MacAndréis blinks, and grins. “Ah grand!” And laughs, “I know nothing about writing plays! Or music for that matter.” He nods at the cup in Erik’s hands. “Let me get you more tea.”

And like that, Erik knows he was daft to be worrying about his face.

(Old habits die hard.)

* * *

Christine collects the watch from the jewellers’ and it’s perfect. An ornate floral design on the outside, and when she opens it the engraving is inside the lid.

_“Between the past and future tense”_

_16 Christmases_

She closes it and tucks it into her pocket.

There’s a perfect place in the wardrobe to hide it.

* * *

They take Clíodhna to see Santa, and the whole way she tries to persuade them for Andriú to see him too. Erik has to tell her that Andriú is far too small, and she pouts a bit and grumbles.

“He’s always too small.” But then she brightens. “Can I ask for a present for him?”

Christine winks at Erik, then smiles down at her. “You absolutely can.”

* * *

Clíodhna gets shy as they reach the head of the queue, and holds on tighter to Erik’s hand. It’s strange, with how excited she’s been, but Erik supposes it was bound to hit sometime. Christine is pushing the buggy and Andriú is asleep, wrapped up in his coat and blanket and hat, and Erik wonders if maybe that was why she was asking if Andriú could see Santa too, so she’d be less nervous.

He wants to scoop her up and hug her, his condition bedamned, but they’re through the door now into the grotto and Christine is right behind them with the buggy. Clíodhna’s hand slips from his and she rushes for Santa, who’s a black woman this year (they’ve explained to Clíodhna that Santa sends his helpers around to visit children for him and they’ll send the messages back to him because he’s too busy looking after the young reindeer), and all her shyness is forgotten when she starts chattering that she “wants a dinosaur and a cow and a baby reindeer and some books and a guitar and a surprise” and that she wants “a nice teddy for Andriú because Daddy keeps saying he’s too small for anything else.” Erik nearly chokes, and Christine is fighting a grin, and then there are two little packages pressed into Clíodhna’s hand, one for her and one for Andriú, and she is jumping off “Santa’s” knee, a wild ball of energy again.

He missed the photo being taken of her, the instant camera, but it is given to him then and of a sudden it strikes him what would be perfect to get for Christine.

She loves taking photos.

* * *

There’s a dress to buy and some fairy wings, for Clíodhna to make the best little angel. The dress is white and patterned with flowers, and while most of the girls will be going for plainer dresses, Clíódhna is insistent that this is “the best one, Mammy”. Erik grins at Christine and takes the buggy, telling her he’s just bringing Andriú for a walk, but she knows that look in his eye and knows there’s some sort of mischief afoot. No matter. It leaves her to focus on Clíodhna and her big pleading eyes.

“Okay, honey, we’ll get the dress.”

* * *

Luckily for Erik he knows exactly where to find a Polaroid camera. He cannot count how many times he has passed them on the stand in the pharmacy when he’s picking up his prescriptions. The Polaroid cameras, the instant film, and it is the work of minutes to pick out a nice small blue camera for Christine, and several boxes of film, both colour and black and white. Andriú is still asleep as he wheels the buggy up to the counter, and after he pays he secrets the boxes of film deep in the pockets of his coat. The camera itself he stashes in the pouch in the back of the buggy, and a mere seven minutes after leaving Christine picking through dresses his mission is accomplished.

(He does not know it yet, but the first photograph she will take will be of him on Christmas morning, wrapped in his dressing gown and wearing the hat from the uniform she will have given him, tilted at a rakish angle. His arms will be full of Andriú, shredding wrapping paper between his baby fingers, and he will not even know she has taken it, until he sees it, pinned to the fridge, and he will marvel at the fact that he looks almost handsome.)

(How she sees him, rendered in an image, perfect.)

He turns the buggy around, feeling inordinately pleased with himself, and wheels it back out in the shopping centre, with the good intention of going back to Christine and Clíodhna and seeing how they are getting on. The good intention, that is, until he wheels Andriú past the jewellers’, and out of the corner of his eye a shine of gold catches his attention.

He stops, and looks, and there it is. A gold necklace, with an ornate Celtic cross.

Christine absolutely deserves two presents for putting up with him.

* * *

_“Are you going to search me for weapons?” he will ask, wearing the uniform for the first time, and she will get that gleam in her eye and he will know that she got him the uniform less as inspiration for him and more because she wanted to see him in it, and when her hand reaches into his pocket, she will pull out the necklace, and cock a brow at him._

_“I think we need to search each other very thoroughly,” she will say, and grin._

* * *

When Erik returns to their side with Andriú and the buggy, Christine and Clíodhna are just leaving the shop. Erik’s grin is bright, and she knows he’s done something, but she knows him well enough by now to know it’s best not to ask him what that something might be. Instead she kisses his cheek, and takes back over the buggy, and listens as Clíodhna tells him all about the dress.

* * *

There is just a week, now, until Christmas. A week, and this week is taken up with all the last preparations. The winding up of the university semester, and Christine is still on leave so she doesn’t have to worry about that but Erik is busy organising his research students and the work they need to do over the break. Clíodhna’s upcoming play results in much singing of ‘Daidí na Nollag’ around the house, to the extent where Andriú is even gurgling along with it. Erik has completed the draft of another piece of music for Éilis’ play, and this one he calls ‘The Third Arrest’. And on top of all of this there’s the wrapping and planning that needs to be done.

Christine has designated herself the Santa Gift Wrapper this year, and her office is kept locked so Clíodhna will not find her in the middle of it. To entertain Clíodhna for a little while one evening, Erik sits her on his lap while he works in his office, and together they wrap the gifts they picked out for Christine and Andriú. He has both the camera and the necklace hidden away to do in his own time, but they do the books they bought them, and while he folds the wrapping paper into place, she cuts the tape with a safety scissors, and chatters happily in his ear.

“And what is this called in Irish?” he asks, to keep her on a flow.

“It’s a _leabhar_ , Daddy.”

“Yes, that’s a book but what is it if it’s a present?”

“It’s a _bronntanas_!”

“Yes, okay, you get a sweet…”

And then he delegates her to carry the presents out to under the tree, where they will sit beside the ones Christine has already wrapped for him, and the ones that John Henry and Kate brought (and Morgan when he came home), and the ones from Nadir and Michelle and Lilly. A gathering of presents under the tree, and still the Santa ones to be added and the ones from his mother and Uncle Al and Bill. Every so often he catches Clíodhna sitting close beside the pile, as if staring at it long enough will reveal all its secrets to her, but she knows she must wait until Christmas Day before she is allowed to open anything.

What will it be like keeping Andriú out of trouble too, when he is old enough to have learned about these things?

Erik is not sure he wants to think about it yet.

* * *

It’s a damp day when Marina, Al, and Bill arrive from Sligo. They’ll be staying with Lilly – an idea that Marina and Lilly cooked up between them – and Christine will admit she’s a little relieved not to have to find space for them in the house. She has not told Erik that, but she suspects he feels the same. For all that he’s delighted to see his mother and uncle and stepfather, he still hasn’t regained all the stamina he lost when he was so ill last year.

She prefers not to dwell on thoughts of it.

But there are hugs, and presents added beneath the tree, and the promised Christmas pudding, and Andriú is content to sit in Al’s lap and babble while Clíodhna does a “dress rehearsal” of the songs for her play.

There are five days, now, until Christmas, and tomorrow is the big day.

Clíodhna is so excited that it takes an hour of Marina telling her stories for her to fall asleep.

“She’s just like Erik at that age,” Al says, and Erik flushes to the tips of his ears.

* * *

And the next day Clíodhna makes an excellent angel, not that Erik is biased at all. He records the performance on his phone to remind her of it in years to come, and even with the round of applause at the end for all these little children, the highlight for Clíodhna is the bag of jellies she gets, and the fact that Christine lets her eat them then instead of saving them until Christmas Day like so much else.

Oh to be five years old and so easily entertained again!

Erik makes her hot chocolate as a treat, with cream and marshmallows, and tries not to laugh at how meticulous she is, scooping out each tiny marshmallow as it melts.

(A handful of hours later she falls asleep on the couch watching _Shrek_ , and he watches as Christine turns off the television, and carefully picks her up, and carries her to bed.)

(These are the moments he will always remember.)

* * *

There is not even the promise of snow this year. Just rain and more rain, and two days before Christmas a storm comes so bad that the electricity is knocked out.

Andriú is crawling on the floor when it happens, and lets out a startled little yelp at the sudden darkness. Erik finds him with the light of his phone, and scoops him up, his little face damp with tears tucked in against his neck. And he shushes him, and whispers to him, and rocks him, and Clíodhna cuddles close, her eyes wide and worried, as they listen to the wind howling outside, and Christine rummaging for candles.

“Found them!”

They’re battery-operated for safety, and she carries them into the sitting room, and sets them up on the table, and in the soft glow they create Erik passes Andriú over to Christine, and pushes himself to his feet.

If they can’t have anything else in the darkness, they can at least have each other, and some music.

* * *

Clíodhna has wrapped herself in a blanket by the time he gets back, and he settles himself on the floor beside her, and lifts his violin out of its case. In the candlelight he checks it that it’s tuned, and Christine smiles at him, adjusting her grip on Andriú, as he takes the bow, and straightens himself.

For months he could not play it, while his chest healed from the surgery, and even now he finds the piano easier to manage, but on this night he will play for them, their own little carol service, and he is just a little rusty, but when he sets the bow to the strings, the notes come tripping back to him, familiar, and warm, and always ready.

Clíodhna tucks herself in against his side, and he closes his eyes, and lets the music come.

Tomorrow will be busy, in all the little ways that Christmas Eve is busy, but tonight they can have this.

* * *

(By the time the power is back, their babies are both asleep. Christine blinks her eyes open, and smiles at him, and her fingers are gentle, tucking a lock of hair back from his face.)

(He has half a mind to knock the power out every year.)

* * *

And then it is Christmas Eve, and Marina takes Clíodhna off their hands for a few hours, delighted to spend some time with her little granddaughter. While Christine preps the turkey to have it ready to go into the oven in the morning, and makes the breadcrumbs for the stuffing, Erik chops the vegetables, swaying slightly to the music playing off the radio. He puts them in water to preserve them, and peels the potatoes as Christine makes scones, and neither of them speak but neither of them need to, really, not then.

In the evening they take Clíodhna to Mass, and Erik is still not sure what he does or does not believe, but it doesn’t matter, not really, not when sitting there in the church with his little girl beside him he can close his eyes and feel the music around him, feel Christmases past and present and faded memories, and whatever about the symbolism of the season, whatever about the religion and the belief, maybe the thing that makes it important, the thing that gives it meaning, is the connection. The connection through time, through space, through the notes and the words and the readings, to all that is and has been and all that will be. A continuum or an ouroboros, endless, circling, moments and flashes and flickers like a web of spreading light, glowing through the darkness.

He feels it warm in his chest. The smell of pine and incense, the singing voices up in the gallery behind them, and how his lips shape the words to sing along… _round yon virgin mother and child…_ Andriú smelling like powder, chubby in his red and green baby-gros, Clíodhna’s eyes bright as the sky, the red bow standing out in her black curls. What Christmases will she remember best, or will this be one of the first? A collection of little pieces tucked up in her head, and someday the smell of baking Christmas cakes might bring it back to her, the taste of marshmallows in hot chocolate, and he thinks of the little connections these things will make for her and wants to give her them all, to have them, and keep them safe.

He blinks his eyes open, a little damp, a little misted, and sees her watching the circle of Advent candles at the altar, and hopes that whatever she might one day believe, that she will always have these memories to look back on, and fill her with warmth.

Christine’s fingers are slender, threading between his, and he squeezes her hand.

The brush of her thumb is soft, and filled with promise.


End file.
